


Untitled Legion Fic

by Whitehat2018



Category: DCU (Comics), Legion of Super-Heroes (Comics)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 11:51:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19208833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whitehat2018/pseuds/Whitehat2018
Summary: Rokk Krinn wakes up in a universe where there is no Legion.  If you don't have one... you have to make one.  Because if this universe doesn't have a Legion, this question might spell disaster for trillions: What happens when the Morning Glory blossoms?





	Untitled Legion Fic

                   In the dark, cramped bedroom, an alarm came to life.  Under a heap of blankets on the narrow bed, a figure shifted.

                  “Ugh, my head.”  He curled the blanket around himself.

                  “Warning: You are now five minutes late for your scheduled shift.”  The Alarm’s voice was male, sharp, stern in tone.

                  “’M not on monitor duty until this evening—”  The bed shifted.  “…And that’s not my alarm.”

                  “Warning.  All Braalian laborers must report for their designated work shifts.  The penalty of non-compliance is termination of employment.  Termination of employment will lead to the revocation of       work status and deportation.”  The Alarm repeated.

                  The bed shifted.  “Where’s my ring—”

                 “All Braalian laborers must report—” 

                 “I heard you the first time.”  Rokk Krinn flung the blanket off, and sat up.  “Illumination twenty-five percent, gradual to fifty.”  As the light flickered on, he looked around.  “This is not my room.”  He rose to his feet, and looked down at the grubby factory overalls he was wearing.  “Ugh.  Where is my _ring.”_ He grunted, and ran his fingers through messy hair.  “…Computer, is there a transmit terminal in here?”

                 “Laborers are allowed one portable transmit terminal as part of their personal possessions.”

                 “Activate it and patch me through to Legion HQ.  Please.”  Rokk swung his bare feet off the bed.

                 “No such location in the Interlink Database.”

                  Rokk paused.  “…Lyle must be playing a prank on me.  _Patch me through to Legion HQ._ ”

                 “No such location in the Interlink Database.”

                 Rokk’s hand clenched into a fist, briefly, as he studied his ring finger.  “…Computer, who does this berth belong to?”

                “This berth is assigned to Rokk Krinn, Male Braalian, currently on Earth via Work-Travel Status.”

                Rokk frowned.  “The indentured servitude laws?  That ended when the U.P. was formed.  This isn’t right… computer, please patch me through to the United Planets Newslink.”

               “No such entity.  Did you mean the Earthgov Newslink or the Greater Sol Confederacy Newslink?”

               “…Explain that second one?”  Rokk asked, his brows knitting.

               “The Greater Sol Confederacy is an alliance of the governments of Earth, Mars, and Titan, along with affiliated governments and subject worlds.”

               Rokk put his hand on the wall, and his fingers curled.  “And how does Braal relate to Confederacy?”

               “Braal is a protectorate world of the Greater Sol Confederacy, after the defeat of Braal by Titan in the Braal-Titan Wars.”

               Rokk frowned.  “…This isn’t right.  Computer, do you have access to the citizens’ registry for Earth?”

               “The public registry of citizens is a searchable database.  Use is logged by Earthgov law.”

               “Look up Garth Ranzz.”  Rokk said.

               “No such individual by that name in the searchable database.”

               “Frell.”  Rokk swore, under his breath.  “All right.  Search for Imra Ardeen.”

               “Ardeen, Imra.  First Lieutenant in the Science Police Psionic Operations Division, Metropolis Branch.”

               “…Now we’re getting somewhere.  I’ll go find Imra.”  Rokk paused.  “Computer, um… please log a sick day with the factory workstation?”

               “Mandatory protocol is that any leave taken will result in reduced pay in compensation for loss of labor.”

               “…How civilized.”  Roll grabbed a coat from where it was hanging from the door, and left his berth.  “Something is _rotten_ in the State of Denmark—”

               A little while later, on the crowded streets of the Metropolis Megaplex, Rokk looked up at a shifting, three-dimensional billboard.  A golden-petaled flower opened and closed, and bold, shining letters proclaimed BEHOLD THE MORNING GLORY.

               “…That’s new.”  Rokk said, scratching the back of his neck.

               Outside, the towering arcologies of Metropolis loomed overhead, interspersed with multi-level crosshatches of ongoing traffic.  A short walk took Rokk to a public transit platform, where a crowd stood waiting for a lift.  Two well-heeled young men whispered to each other as he approached.

               “Grife, Rogr, look at that Braalian.  What a grubber.”

               “I can smell the iron dust on him from here, Niyl.”

               One of the two, a red-suited young man with his hair dyed into a series of multi-swirling colors, looked up.  “You should stand over there, grubber.  We don’t want any of your dirt to rub off onto our clothes.”

               Rokk slipped his hands into the pocket of his overalls, and ignored them, which caused the second of the two, a young man with a shaved head and artificially elongated ears, to scowl.  “Hey.  We’re _talking_ to you, monopole!”  When Rokk continued ignoring them, the man picked up his drink, and flicked it with his wrist, splashing it onto him.  “Oops!  What a waste.”  Then he hurled his drink container at Rokk, splattering him with the rest of its milky contents.  “There we go!”

               As the two young men degenerated into laugher and the transport began to descend, Rokk looked down at the liquid covering his coveralls, and then turned to face away from the two.  The laughter of the two young men was cut short as they were yanked about by invisible force, and their heads collided, leaving both dazed on the ground.  Without so much as a twitch, Rokk boarded the transport.  “Have a nice wait,”  he murmured, as the doors hissed shut behind him and the transport floated away, leaving the two sitting behind him in a stupor.

               Later, at Science Police headquarters, Rokk stopped at the information desk.  “Hello,”  he said to the computer, “I’m looking for Sargeant Imra Ardeen, Psychic Operations Division?”

               The computer replied, “Sargeant Ardeen is currently in her office.  Please state the nature of your visit.”

               “I need her help.”  Rokk said.  “I know her.”

               “Personal visitations to on-duty Science Police officers are restricted.”

               Rokk frowned.  “It’s an emergency.  Please.  I need to see her.  Tell her Rokk needs to talk to her, now.”

               “One moment while we page Sargeant Ardeen.”  The computer was silent for several minutes, before it lit back up.  “Sargeant Ardeen will see you in Interview Area Eleven.  For security purposes, a Science Police officer will be assigned to escort you.  Please wait here.”

               Several minutes later, a lift descended.  The young man who stepped out was broad-shouldered, slightly taller than Rokk, and dressed in a set of immaculate, regulation-perfect Science Police Black-and-White armor.  “I haven’t even gotten time to take my helmet off—”  He paused.  “…You’re a Braalian.”

               Rokk looked up.  “Yes, I am.  I—”  He stopped.  “Dyrk.  Dyrk Magz?”

               Patrolman Magz shifted, slightly.  “…Have we met?”

               “Yes—”  Rokk said.  “…No.”  Then he sighed.  “I need to see Imra Ardeen.”

               “So I’ve been told.  The only reason Iron-Butt’s seeing you at all is the sheer novelty of a Braalian factory grubber _asking_ to talk to her rather than running the sprock away.”  Dyrk reached up and took his helmet off, revealing a startlingly handsome face, with blond hair plastered to his forehead by sweat.  “Come on.  I’ll take you to her.”

               On the lift, Dyrk turned to Rokk.  “You knew my name.  I don’t handle the Braalian beat, even though I keep requesting it.”  He murmured under his breath, “It’s because I’d end up treating ‘em too much like _people_.”  Then he brightened.  “But we must’ve met somewhere.  What’s your name?”

               “Rokk Krinn.  Son of Hu and Ewa.  I have a brother named Pol.”

               Dyrk winced.  “Oh.  That must be why.  You looked familiar from the…”

               “From the what?”  Rokk asked.

               “…You act like you don’t know.”  Dyrk said.  “The Braalian rights protests?  Somebody threw a cyclonite gas grenade into the middle of the crowd… killed your parents and your brother?”

               Rokk blanched, visibly.  “Oh.  Right.  Yeah.  …That.  I try to forget it.”

               Dyrk paused, and then snorted.  “I would too.  Listen—”  He tilted his head.  “…I’ll be nearby if you need me, okay?  She’s got a fearsome rep but Ardeen’s square and level.”  He clapped Rokk on the shoulder, as the lift opened, and he escorted him to the interview room.

               Inside, Imra Ardeen was seated in a crisp uniform, studying a pad.  Her blond hair was done up in a tight bun, and her black and white uniform was crisp, with the Saturn-symbol of the Science Police psy-ops division on the badge clipped to her chest.  She looked up.  “Thank you, Patrolman Magz.  I’ll take it from here.”

               Dyrk snapped a salute, and closed the door behind them.

               Imra tapped the padd against her hand.  “Rokk Krinn of Braal.  Son of Hu and Ewa, brother of Pol.  Parents and brother killed during the Braalian protests.”  She frowned.  “I’m sorry.  Speaking off-the-record, I’m not happy with the way that Earthgov and the Science Police handled that situation.”

               Rokk closed his eyes, and exhaled.  “Imra—Officer Ardeen.  _Imra_.  I need your help.  I’m not supposed to be here.”

               Imra tilted her head.  “You came to Earth with your family on a legal work permit under the ‘Service earns Citizenship’ program.  It’s all completely above-board and legal.  You’ve been an exemplary worker.  I don’t understand what you mean.”

               “I mean all of _this_.  It’s wrong.”  Rokk said, looking around.  “I’m not from this—this world.  This _universe._ ”  He gestured, with his hands out.  “Where I come from, this… it’s not _this_!”  He leaned forward, gripping the edge of a table.  “I’m part of an organization called the Legion of Super-Heroes, and Earth is part of a galactic federation of worlds called the United Planets.  We fight to make the world a better place.  I _founded_ the Legion, along with you and a Winathan named Garth Ranzz.  We stopped an assassination attempt on R.J. Brande.  The three of us, together.”

               Imra stared at Rokk, broken only by a slow blink.  “R.J. Brande _was_ murdered.  Years ago.  I was supposed to be security for that event, but got reassigned at the last moment.  What you’re telling me sounds completely mad.”

               “That’s why I came to you.”  Rokk said, his fingers clenching.  “I know that you can look into my mind and _see_ that I am telling you the truth!”

               Imra’s expression remained cool.  “A deep telepathic scan is an extremely invasive procedure, and it takes hours.  …I need you to understand, before I take you at your word, I need to rule out mental illness or _any_ form of psychic tampering.  Are you all right with that?”

               Cos closed his eyes.  “With any telepath other than you?  No.”

               Imra straightened up.  “Very well.”  She touched her badge.  “Officer Magz?  Rokk Krinn has come forward with evidence that could be useful in an important investigation, and I’ll be conducting a telepathic interrogation on him.  Please insure we aren’t disturbed.”

               “Roger-Dodger.”  Dyrk radioed back.

               Imra glanced up.  “Very well.  Let’s begin.”  She met Cos’s eyes with her own.  “Count backwards from ten, please.”

               Cos blinked, slowly.  “Ten, nine, eight…”  His world went fuzzy – and suddenly, he snapped back to attention.  “…Seven—”

               “That’s enough.”  Imra said.  She sagged in her chair, visibly tired.  “I apply a psychic anesthetic technique to make the procedure less traumatic.  It tends to erase the short-term memory.”  She drew a sharp breath.  “You are not lying.  You’re not under any kind of psychic tampering.  And while you’re _exceptionally_ tightly-wound, you’re not mentally ill in any way that would produce this kind of large-scale elaborate delusion.  And furthermore, I DID find evidence of psychic trauma-suppression and psychic surgery in your mind.  That _I_ performed.  Which shouldn’t be possible.”

               “…Unless I’m telling you the truth.”  Rokk said.

               “Unless you’re telling me the truth.”  Imra repeated.

               “There has to be a reason I’m here.”  Rokk said, his expression open.  “But to find out what that is, I need help.  I need—”  He paused.  “…I need Brainiac Five.”

               “I saw him, in your mind.”  Imra said.  “But I’m still having a hard time believing that the most feared sentient in the galaxy was a part of your Legion.  Here, worlds TREMBLE at the approach of Brainiac 5’s Skull-Ship.  He travels the space lanes, helping himself to whatever he needs to conduct his experiments.  Spaceships, orbital stations, _worlds_.  The Khunds, the Thanagarians, the Dominion – they’ve all tried to stop him, and the results have been catastrophic.  For them.”

               “…Has anybody tried to reason with him?”  Rokk asked, his eyes narrowing.

               “Reason doesn’t usually take you far with mad scientists.”  Imra replied.

               “…Not if you don’t know how to do it.”  Rokk said.

               “Okay.  Not that I _condone_ going after Brainiac,” Imra said, “But suppose you do.  You’ll need a FTL ship.  You’ll need someone with a line of credit that they can draw on, on the galactic spacelanes.  And you’ll need a crew.  I have no idea where you’re going to find those things.”

               Rokk turned a thought over in his mind.  “I do.  There’s a Legionnaire from Earth.  He’s rich.  _And_ he’s a galactically-rated pilot.  Imra, do you think you could get me a transmit to Dirk Morgna?”

               Imra blinked, slowly, and then she laughed.  ” _Dirk Morgna_?  That feckless piece of flotsam?  Are you _serious_?  Listen, Rokk, you’re not nearly pretty enough, top-heavy enough, or dumb enough to get that man’s attention.”

               A slow smile crept across Rokk’s face.  “Oh, he’ll listen to me.  It’s all about knowing the right buttons to push to get the right response, Imra.”

               Imra’s mouth flattened into a thin line.  “…Let me get you that transmit terminal.  But I’m dubious of your ability to get anything out of Dirk Morgna, especially in the middle of the night.”

               Rokk grinned, and sat back in his chair, heavily.  “Like I said… prepare to be surprised.”

               The transmit terminal was a small personal unit, a small black disk that settled comfortably in the cup of Rokk’s hand.  A flick of his hand along the holographic terminal, and he input a call.  With Imra’s Science Police classification, he opened a private line.

               “Good evening,”  A quiet voice said.  “You’ve reached the personal transmit of Dirk Morgna.  Mr. Morgna is screening all incoming calls at this time.”  The holographic image on the terminal was a giant cat, with the head of a beautiful woman.

               “What is that?”  Imra asked, puzzled.

               The corner of Rokk’s mouth turned up.  “It’s a sphinx.  In order to talk to him, I’ll need to answer three questions.  It’s very _Dirk_.”

               “Question one.  What does THAC0 stand for, and what is it?”

               “…Easy.  To Hit Armor Class Zero.  It’s a number assigned off of a table in archaic editions of Dungeons & Dragons, as the meet-or-beat number a character needs to roll on a twenty-sided die to land a hit on an attack roll.  That target number is modified by various factors, the most important one being the Armor Class rating of a creature.”

               The Sphinx nodded, slowly.  “Correct.  Next question.  Finish the phrase: ‘What’s your name?  …Who’s your daddy?’”

               “…What?”  Imra asked.

               Cos held up a finger.  “It’s a line from an ancient Earth song.  Dirk’s not the history nut I am, but he has his favorites.”  He turned back to the sphinx.  “The full phrase is ‘What’s your name?  Who’s your daddy?  …Is he rich like me?”

               The Sphinx bowed her head again.  “Correct.  Final question: What’s in my pocket?”

               “This one I know.”  Imra said.  “The One Ring to Rule them All.”  She glanced back to Rokk.  “…I’ve read some of the classics.  Acclimatization to Earth culture.”

               The Sphinx dissolved into dust.  “Putting you through now.”

               A moment later, a shadowy holographic image appeared of a man with thick red-gold curls, sitting up in bed.  A woman was curled up against him, watching, curiously.  “Dirkie, who is it?”

               “…Good question.”  Dirk leaned forward.  “Who is this?”  He turned to look at Imra.  “…Cops?”

               “No.” Rokk said, with a look to Imra.  “Well, yes. But no.  Dirk—listen.  You don’t know me, but I know you.  I need your _help_.”

               “You have thirty seconds before I hang up on you.”

               “Okay.  First of all, I know that you collect sculptures.  When you were ten years old you bought Rodin’s _Thinker_ from an intergalactic auction where it was set to be sold for scrap metal because _they_ didn’t know what it was but you knew it had been stolen from Earth six hundred years ago.  You’ve been hooked ever since.”

               Dirk’s brows knit.  “Uh-huh.”

               “Second, I know that you’re fully fluent in two dozen languages and conversant in twice as many.”

               “…You could get that off my fan pages on the Interlink.”  Dirk paused, and then said, “Baby, I’m going to take this in the other room.  Just sit tight for a minute.”  He got up and pulled on a robe, then grabbed the transmit and carried it with him, before setting it down.  “Okay.  Last chance.”

               “…I also know that despite it all, the attitude and the ego and the women, good grife _so many women_ , you’re a good man who wants to help people.  You don’t think you are, but you are.”  Rokk leaned forward.  “And that right now you’re telling yourself I’m a lunatic and that you should hang up, but you can also hear the desperation in my voice and some instinct is telling you to hold on just a second longer.  _I need your help_.”

               Dirk narrowed his eyes.  “You’re Braalian.  I can tell from your accent.”

               Rokk nodded.  “Yeah.  I am.”

               “…I can’t stand the way they treat the Braalian laborers.  They’re little better than slaves.”  Dirk’s gaze flicked up to Imra.  “That badge means you’re psy-ops.  Titanian.”

               “I don’t share my people’s prejudice against Braalians.”  Imra said, with a defiant tilt of her chin.

               Dirk sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose.  “Fine.  But I’m tired and I’m not going to continue this conversation on the ‘mit.  Besides, I have company.  Come to my apartment in the New York District tomorrow morning.  We’ll talk more there.”

               Rokk sighed.  “ _Thank you,_ Dirk.  I promise, it’ll all make more sense tomorrow.”

               “It’d better.  Because I’m going to be kicking Miss Deimos 3019 out of my apartment for this.”

               “…Well, it’s not like you were planning to call her again anyway, were you?”

               Dirk’s mouth flattened into a line.  “…Little too familiar there, chum.”  He lifted his hand.  “…Tomorrow.”  He waved his hand over the transmit, interrupting the signal and ending the call.

               Cos’s shoulders slumped, and he let out a slow whistle.

               Imra shook her head.  “I can’t believe you managed that.”  She stood up,  and put her hand on Rokk’s shoulder.  “…Go get some sleep.  I’ll pick you up tomorrow.”

               “Okay.”  Cos rubbed the back of his neck.  “Imra, I need one more favor from you.  I need you to run a search on a name.  Garth Ranzz, the Winathan who founded the Legion with you and I. His twin sister is Ayla and he has an older brother, Mekt.  I need to know where he is and how I can find him.”

               “I’ll have Patrolman Magz see what he can turn up.  This Garth.  Where you come from, he and I were in a relationship.”  Imra met Rokk’s gaze.

               “He loved you in ways I don’t have words for.  And you… you have to keep so much of yourself in reserve, but you didn’t have to with him.”  Rokk let his gaze fall away.

               Imra’s expression was muted.  “…You seem more like my type.  To be frank.”

               Rokk stroked his chin.  “There may have been—something.  But I… made a choice.  I lived for the Legion.  You respected that.”

               “I imagine I did.”  Imra said.  “…Let me call for a cab to take you home.”  Her expression softened.  “And, Rokk?”

               Rokk paused at the door.  “Yeah?”

               “I wish I had met you sooner.”

              


End file.
